


Obvious; Or, Greg Lestrade Is Good At Detecting And Has Five Pounds To One That Sherlock And John Will Shag

by the_arc5



Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_arc5/pseuds/the_arc5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade isn't the reasoning machine Sherlock is, but that doesn't mean he's <i>blind</i>.  And it's obvious to him, if nobody else, that a certain dynamic duo could use a nudge in the right direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obvious; Or, Greg Lestrade Is Good At Detecting And Has Five Pounds To One That Sherlock And John Will Shag

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a thank you for [](http://mariska-lee.livejournal.com/profile)[**mariska_lee**](http://mariska-lee.livejournal.com/) for her support in the [](http://help-midwest.livejournal.com/profile)[**help_midwest**](http://help-midwest.livejournal.com/) auction. I'd hoped to get the other two pieces up along with this one, but best laid plans and so on. Beta'ed by the e'er faithful [](http://amaberis.livejournal.com/profile)[**amaberis**](http://amaberis.livejournal.com/) and Britpicked by the speedy [](http://thom-ftz.livejournal.com/profile)[**thom_ftz**](http://thom-ftz.livejournal.com/). Subtitle by K. You all have my undying gratitude.

No matter what Sherlock says, Greg earned his job, and he doesn’t keep it by doing shoddy work. He’s a good detective. He can put the pieces together without Sherlock’s help, even if he takes a bit longer to do so.

To be fair, this one was kind of obvious.

They’re both on their third and the match can only go one way from here when Greg finally finds enough internal fortitude to bring it up.

“So,” he says, swirling his half-full pint and wondering if he shouldn’t just get another now. “Sherlock. He’s...”

“Yeah,” John says, and takes a drink. It’s a promising start, but not exactly clear, so Greg tries again.

“You’re, um...all right, then?”

John’s jaw flexes and he looks down at the bar, waging some short-lived inner battle. Greg sips his beer and pretends not to care one way or another.

“It’s not exactly normal,” John says finally, each word carefully considered. “Of course, with him, nothing ever was. Sometimes I get up in the morning and I’m shocked to see him standing there. I forget he’s... But then, I used to wake up in the morning and wonder where he was. Funny, how the mind plays tricks.”

One hell of a joke, Greg thinks, one that was never funny at all. But he nods like he understands and turns the mostly-empty glass in his hand.

“Have you said anything to him?”

“I’ve said a lot of things. About what?”

Greg heaves a sigh and regrets not getting that extra round. “About you. You and him. How you, you know. Feel. And things.”

John looks at him like he’s grown another head.

“Oh, come on,” Greg says, trying to cover his embarrassment and unease with bluster. “I know you’re still living together, you must have forgiven him. You’re trying to, at least, which god knows is more chance than he ever deserved. I just wondered if he knew. You know what, never mind, it’s none of my business anyway.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re saying,” John says solemnly. The man could make a fortune at poker, Greg is convinced.

“ _You_ ,” Greg says, gesturing.

“Me,” John repeats. “No, I’m sorry, Greg, I’m not following.”

“Goddammit, does the man know you’re in love with him?”

There. That’s clear enough. John opens his mouth and closes it again, then tosses back what’s left of his beer before looking back up.

“That I’m _what_?”

“That you’re in love him,” Greg says again, trying and failing to be nonchalant about the whole thing.

“That’s it, I’m taking you home.”

“Stop it, John, you’re not an idiot and neither am I.”

“What’s this about, then?”

Greg taps his thumb nervously on the bar, determined to see this conversation through even though he’d much rather pretend it never happened.

“I know how you look at him, all right?” he says, keeping his gaze in front of him, away from John. “And I know what his little stunt did to you. Of all the ridiculous, selfish, thick-headed things to do...”

“He did what he thought he had to,” John says firmly, like it’s a mantra he’s practiced again and again. Greg makes a sound between a cough and a laugh.

“Of course he did. Doesn’t he always? My point, though, is that he walked out on you, and it wasn’t like your best friend died. It was like you’d been ripped in half. The rest of us were hurt, yeah, some worse than others. But it damn near killed you, and it doesn’t take a consulting detective to figure out why.”

“And what difference does it make?” John sounds snappish underneath his calm.

“It doesn’t, really. I just...wondered.” Greg takes another drink.

“If it doesn’t matter, why did you wonder?” John says, the defensiveness gone and a soft, insistent intuition in its place. Greg swears mentally. John has picked up way too much from their resident madman, but he’s not nearly so much of a dick about it, which somehow makes it worse.

“Look, it’s none of my business, all right? I know it’s none of my business. And I don’t have any right to pry in your personal affairs...”

“Are you promising to drop the drugs bust ploy?”

“What? No, I need that one. What I’m saying is I think you should tell him.”

“You think I should tell him?”

“That you, you know. How you feel about him.”

“You think that I should tell Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , who has just recently _reappeared from the grave_ , that I...see him as more than a friend? Putting aside everything that’s inherently wrong in that statement, which I should mention is quite a lot, don’t you think the timing could be better?”

Greg shrugs expansively. “I would just imagine that it would be better to tell him now, before you get used to him being back but not what you really want.”

There is a long silence. John stares at him for a moment and drains the last of his drink.

“That was a little profound, there.”

“I’m a man of hidden depths.”

“So I’m seeing.”

Another silence. Then, Greg says quietly, “You’re a good man, John. I think you deserve a little bit of happiness, however you find it.”

“He’s back,” John says, almost plaintive.

“I know. That doesn’t mean you can’t still be miserable.”

***

John doesn’t take Greg’s advice. Frankly, Greg would have been shocked if he did. He still had to give it, though. Sherlock was...is...this amazingly perceptive moron who can read your life story in your fingernails while somehow being completely blind to what’s right there in front of him. He can probably tell that John has lost weight, that his limp came back, that he has some new scars and grey hairs, but it won’t even occur to him that John looks so done in because he had just started recovering from a very long period of very intense mourning. No, mourning isn’t even the right word. Maybe there isn’t a right word. Something about John had died when Sherlock did, and finding out Sherlock wasn’t as dead as advertised didn’t fix that.

Greg knows, because Greg had been around while John went through all the usual stages of grief, along with a few unusual ones. He’d been the one to come ‘round to make sure John hadn’t forgotten to eat, or go to work, or go somewhere that wasn’t saturated with Sherlock’s presence. And now he has to watch them dance around each other in some sort of awkward emotional promenade, John bravely trying to pretend he hasn’t been gutted for a second time while Sherlock...

Hang on.

Now that’s interesting.

“Sherlock,” he says blithely, and grabs Sherlock by the elbow. He’s never been blithe in his entire life, and his grip is strong enough to bruise. Sherlock, predictably, halts and gives him a look that’s half inquiry, half warning. “A word?”

Sherlock’s eyes flick over to where John is having an animated discussion with Sally. Back when Sherlock was dead, she’d tried to convince John to buy a better laptop and attempt for, if not a professional blog, one that at least approached technological competence. It’s now a routine for them, a kind of therapy for them both, and it offers a very narrow window of opportunity. Greg can see the second Sherlock makes up his mind, so he yanks Sherlock around the corner of the building and slams him against the brick.

“Shut up,” he snaps quickly. “We’ve been over this once: you are a terrible human being. I mean it. What you did is actually worse than anything I can imagine, and I’ve seen a lot of things _to_ imagine. But that man around the corner has found it in himself to forgive you, and so help me, if you ever, _ever_ hurt him like that again, they’ll have to have your funeral all over again. Do I make myself clear?”

“You should know better than this,” Sherlock says, but there’s something off in the deep timbre of his voice. Bingo.

“John Watson is the kind of man people make exceptions for,” Greg says smugly. It’s easier to be confident when the guy you’re shoving around doesn’t try to crush your windpipe. “Now, why the hell have you not got down on your knees, told him you’re a terrible human being, and begged to make it up to him with ludicrous amounts of mind-bendingly incredible sex?”

For the first and probably last time in his life, Greg gets to see what Sherlock looks like when he’s taken completely by surprise.

“Excuse me?” he says. Greg huffs a frustrated sigh. Good manners, the refuge of the posh twit.

“You, John, mind-bendingly incredible sex. You can’t honestly tell me you haven’t done this equation in your head.”

“Are you out of your _mind_?” Sherlock hisses incredulously, and grabs Greg’s shoulders to peer around him, as if someone will materialize out of the fog and scold them.

“I’m not sure how to take that, coming from you.”

Sherlock looks angry now. Angry and a little panicked. “I realize you’re put out with me right now, but you did call me for help, and if you intend to avail yourself of that help in the future, it would be wise...”

“John is my friend,” Greg interrupts flatly. “And so are you, when you’re not doing something completely mental, which is most of the time. I’m trying to help you.”

Sherlock glares down at him for a moment. “He hates me,” he growls venomously. “I am very, very fortunate that he’s the best man in London, and that he’s agreed to let me stay. I don’t know what put this idea in your head, but remove it immediately. He can barely stand me in the same flat, never mind the same bed.”

Greg stares, non-plussed. “You have got to be kidding.”

Sherlock shakes him off and swirls back toward the crime scene. John’s head jerks up like it’s attached to a string, and with a parting shot, he leaves Donovan to follow at Sherlock’s heels.

“Unbelievable,” he tells Donovan, and she nods.

“Pathetic.”

“Sad, really.”

“Ridiculous that it’s gone on so long.”

“If they weren’t so damn stubborn,” Greg says, almost to himself, and Donovan looks at him sharply.

“I was talking about John’s sad little excuse for a blog. What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” Greg sighs.

***

Honestly, he doesn’t know what he would have done if that cretin hadn’t had a knife. Not that he’s happy about John lying on the ground, holding his leg and bleeding all over the place, but it is just almost worth it to see Sherlock fling himself extravagantly to the tarmac, press his scarf to the wound, and beg John to hold on.

“Sherlock,” John says, far calmer than any bleeding man has a right to be. “Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should have known he’d be armed, I should have gone first, John,” Sherlock is babbling, and Greg has seen him talk down bombers, gunmen, leading politicians, and his frankly terrifying brother, but he’s never sounded this mindlessly _scared_.

“Sherlock!” John snaps, and Sherlock shuts his mouth with an audible click of teeth. “I’m fine. It’ll just need a few stitches.”

Sherlock opens his mouth and John raises a bloody hand. “Doctor, remember?”

“Self-diagnosis is dangerous,” Sherlock retorts, but there’s so much naked relief in his voice, the sting is erased.

“But chasing knife-wielding burglars, that’s completely safe,” John says, and winces when his laugh jostles his leg.

Greg lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when Sherlock’s hand settles over John’s, firm and steady and proprietary. There’s no way that look can be mistaken, and there’s finally some vaguely inappropriate touching going on. Too bad it had to come with a knife wound, but hey, desperate times. Besides, it’s probably romantic in the bizarre, twisted world the two of them inhabit.

“Oh. My. God,” Donovan says, coming to stand beside him, the prisoner safely handcuffed and shut up in a car. “Are they going to shag right here?”

“No,” Greg says cheerfully, too pleased to be properly sarcastic. “They’ll at least stop the bleeding first. Come on, let’s hand over this lowlife and get a drink. My treat.”

“You didn’t arrange this,” Donovan says, turning to follow him away from the scene as the ambulance pulls up. “Greg.”

“Yes, Sally, I arranged to have John stabbed in the leg.”

Donovan snorts. “I meant the impending shag, but you’d better not let the freak hear you say that too loud. If John had actually been hurt, I think our suspect might have mysteriously fallen on his own knife. Or off a building.”

“Ah, but fortunately for all of us, they can ride to the hospital in loving bliss, John will be fine, and we don’t have to deal with the paperwork attached to a mysteriously dead suspect,” Greg points out.

“There is something wrong with you,” Sally says. “You’re _happy_ about this!”

“And you’re just irritated because you were going to have a go at John. Admit it.”

“I will do nothing of the kind. You’re a lunatic.”

“I’m right.”

Donovan protests and deflects all the way to the bar, but Greg is a good detective. He knows a lie when he sees one.

He prides himself on knowing love when he sees it, too.

To be fair, when Sherlock and John turn up at the next crime scene, the way they look at each other makes it pretty obvious.


End file.
